In the Devil's Thrall
by DarkJackal
Summary: After Robin leaves Gisborne alive to "live in Hell", Guy questions his choice to remain loyal to the Sheriff, and runs afoul of the Outlaws, who might just make his life even worse. Explores mental relationship of Guy/Sheriff, and a bit of Guy/Tuck.
1. Chapter 1

In the Devil's Thrall

_Events occur a fortnight after Robin Hood and the outlaws return from the Holy Land. Death did not come for Guy of Gisborne when Robin did, and he is left to wonder why he remains in Nottingham when his quest for power has come to naught, and life is little more than a drudge. _

Chapter I

Guy awoke with the remains of a dream echoing in his head. When he shut his eyes, vague images lingered; steel and sand, a dove held in the jaws of a jackal. He pushed them roughly out of mind before he could fixate on whatever guilt or fears they were trying to impart, and reached for the goblet of wine near his bed. Unsurprisingly, it was empty. Dragging a hand through his dark hair, he cursed himself for not having made provision for the morning. There was no other course but to get up and find more of the vintage, or something else to distract him from his perpetual demons.

Staying at the castle put him in a morose mood. The place should have engendered a sense of security, but lately, it felt like nothing more than a dungeon. Sunlight never penetrated the innermost corridors of the keep, yet he often found himself treading over these dark pathways, drawn inexorably back to the heart of the stone. The castle was always alive with activity, but he felt removed from it all. The inhabitants had gone from behaving deferentially toward him, to avoiding his glare entirely. It was as if they were afraid he was some beast that might take their soul down to the hell that he lived in if they looked too long. He knew he was a baleful sight, with overly long hair straggled from neglect, and a gaunt look that was due to an exhaustion of the spirit as much as the body. But he did nothing to change that. The truth was, he did not care for a living soul anymore, and assumed the feeling was mutual. A desire for retribution against those who had wronged him, and a failing sense of purpose to perform his duty for the Sheriff, were all that motivated him.

But he would have to remain at the castle until the Sheriff willed it otherwise. Ever since Robin Hood had returned from Acre, Vaisey had been in a heightened state of paranoia, and wanted his master-of-arms close at hand in case the outlaws tried something. Or perhaps, it was to make sure _he_ did not try anything. Guy was no longer certain the Sheriff trusted him as he once had, and each day he did less and less to ingratiate himself.

A rap at the door of his quarters interrupted his brooding. Swinging the door open, he had to look down to see his visitor. A young page stood in the middle of the corridor, and nervously informed him of the Sheriff's summons.

"What does he want this early?" he asked gruffly. Truth be told, the angle of the shadows crossing the room hinted that it was not that early anymore. Most inhabitants of the castle were about their chores already, but Guy scowled at the page nonetheless. The messenger was a fair-haired boy whose mother must have been quite a sow to have birthed such a piglet. Despite his doughy appearance, the boy was aggrieved that he had angered the knight he was sent to fetch.

"He did not say, Sir Guy." There was a quaver in his voice. The page had not been at the castle long, as far as Guy knew. He wondered what happened to the Sheriff's last page. Not one to do anything according to custom, Vaisey had recruited a teenage girl for the position. And while that might have been disastrous for her, at least she had enough smarts to avoid the worst of his wrathful outbreaks while still being properly attentive. Guy had yet to find a way to do this. Perhaps she found other employment while they were away in the Holy Land. If she was truly wise, she would stay gone. This new boy would not last long. Serving the Sheriff was not a job for the sensitive.

Regardless of what he thought of the messenger, he could not ignore the message. He shrugged a heavy tunic of leather and quilted brocade over his black shirt, buckled on his sword, and took a last desperate glance around the quarters for an overlooked jug of wine. Finding none, he swore silently and then followed the page through the corridors. The boy seemed very anxious to get there quickly, but Guy kept to his usual pace. The lack of panic on the faces of the other courtiers they passed revealed they were not under siege, and the castle must not be burning, so why waste breath running up flights of stairs?

Their path finally ended at a balcony off the north wall. A short, dark figure was back-lit against the bright sunlight. The Sheriff was looking out across the field toward the edge of the forest. As usual, his sombre attire was a counterpoint to his enthusiastic madness. He spun around before Guy could say a word. He wore a falconry glove, and an enraged expression on his face.

"You took long enough!" He spat the admonishment at Guy and the page. Sometimes Guy felt like _he_ was the Sheriff's page for all the respect the man gave him. Flinching, the page bowed his head, trying to melt into the wall of the corridor. Guy was in no mood to apologize, and said nothing. He waited for the Sheriff to reveal the source of his rage. He was not left in suspense for long.

"My lovely lanner falcon has flown, Gisborne, and you are going to retrieve it!" he declared furiously.

Guy was not expecting that order, and was not even sure it was possible to fulfill. He glanced past the Sheriff toward the sky visible beyond the outer walls. He remembered Vaisey occasionally flew the small falcon within the confines of the inner keep, preying on swallows nesting in the eaves. His brows furrowed slightly as he imagined trying to recapture the thing. While he was considering the bellowed request, the Sheriff's anger had been abruptly replaced by the deepest sorrow.

"Does she not understand she has nothing without me? How could she want to leave when I give her my time, my attention, and the best meat in the castle? " He stalked about in front of the balcony.

_I imagine most creatures would rather run away than sit on your hand all day_, Guy thought wryly. He turned to watch the Sheriff pace.

Vaisey continued to lecture in an aggrieved voice, "Women are all the same, no matter what the species. Give them the world and the ungrateful wretches run off to find a better deal elsewhere. But I do not have to tell _you_ that, now do I?" The Sheriff stopped pacing and looked closely at Guy for the first time that morning. Guy let the comment pass. To Vaisey, Guy's murder of Marian, and subsequent turmoil, were just lessons he had needed to learn the hard way.

The Sheriff's hazel eyes glinted as he scrutinized his second-in-command. He removed the falconry glove, and bridged the distance between them. His tone turned to a low snarl, "You do not seem to appreciate the pathos of this situation!" He struck Guy on the arm with the heavy leather glove. "Here, take this. Perhaps she will come back to something familiar." Frowning, Guy took the violently proffered item of clothing.

Looking up from the glove, he noticed Vaisey was still focusing too intently on him. "You know, you lack a certain _joie de vivre_ today. I cannot quite put my finger on it," he advanced, laying his index finger in the center of Guy's chest, "but there is something lacking in your service to me these days." Guy did not back down, and the Sheriff stared up at him with brows drawn together, and mock disappointment playing about his mouth. "It is most irksome. Even that twit Allan had more gusto than you do lately. I might just have to look him up." He moved away from Guy to look out the window, then tossed a comment over his shoulder, "Perhaps..." he dragged the word out, "...offer him a shot at _your_ job." The Sheriff twisted partly around to see the effect his jab had on his subordinate.

Guy was unimpressed by the threat, and chose not to dignify it with a reaction. They both knew Allan was a lazy traitor, and would not be useful except as target practice. When his barb did not appear to sting, the Sheriff grew coolly malevolent.

"Truly Gisborne, you need to work on your attitude. Your purpose is to impress upon the population the power I have over them. I will remind you it is _my_ power, not yours. You are _my_ agent. I have placed a great amount of trust in you. I _assume_ I need not remind you that any breach of trust, in whatever way it manifests, will result in dire consequences."

The coldness of Vaisey's tone suggested he was being serious. Guy had not planned to have it out with the Sheriff today, and he tried to soften his look to appear slightly deferential, "Of course, my lord." He tried to look contrite without looking weak. It was a balancing act he had perfected over the years.

A contemptuous smile crossed the Sheriff's face, "Don't look so lost. The falcon was seen heading north. Two scouts were sent out to follow it. Take the master falconer with an escort, and get my bird back!" Guy struggled not to let his irritation become obvious. If the Sheriff cared so much about it, why didn't he find the fat buzzard himself?

Sharply, the Sheriff turned his back on him, and Guy took it as his cue to leave, but Vaisey's voice slipped into a leisurely drawl, "Oh, and Gisborne..." He spoke without looking at Guy, "do try not to kill her when you get her back. Your track record with _birds_ is a little grim." He chuckled to himself.

Guy's features revealed a momentary flash of anger, but the Sheriff was not looking. Guy knew his games, and tried hard not to participate, but mastery of his own will was slipping. Vaisey took increasing pleasure in pricking the raw places in Guy's heart, without really understanding how close he came to a killing blow. It was likely the Sheriff had never suffered from an affliction of guilt, and he must have found it amusing to watch his bad boy saddened over killing what he viewed as nothing more than a traitorous wench.

Guy turned without a word, and strode back down the corridor, causing the heretofore silent page to squeak in fright as he passed. Before descending the stairs leading to the stables, he shouted orders to one of the guards at the end of the hall to gather soldiers for the escort.

With each step down the stairwell, the spurs on his boots rang sharply against the grey stone. The sound reminded him of the bells attached to a falcon's leg. Fetching the Sheriff's pet was just the sort of thing Guy could not have cared less about, but if nothing else, it would provide a distraction from his otherwise sullen mood.

After barking an order to his own page to ready his horse, he sent a messenger to the mews to summon the falcon master. It occurred to him that this ridiculous task might be a ruse to get him out of the castle so his own soldiers could kill him on the Sheriff's order. But Vaisey had innumerable ways he could have Guy killed, so it really was not worth bothering about. He had enough things gnawing at his mind without adding paranoia to the list.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter II

Gathering the escort took little time. The three men-at-arms, the falconer, and Guy rode out of the main gate when the sun was just shy of its peak. It would be up to the falconer to make a guess at where the bird had headed. The last report had been north, which did little to narrow it down.

The falcon master was middle-aged, rotund, and seemed flustered by the order to join Guy's party. He appeared nervous about asking Guy anything, but the need to allay, or confirm, his fears overcame his apprehension. He encouraged his mount to ride abreast of Guy's horse until he worked up his courage to speak.

"Sir Guy, the Sheriff...he...did he...?" The man stammered trying to find a way to verbalize what he most feared. Guy's face remained impassive, so he tried again. "What kind of...mood was he in when he mentioned my services were required?" His face had a tension to it, as if he were expecting a blow. Guy looked at the man with a dispassionate smirk.

"Vexed," was his short reply. As they rode, Guy tossed him the Sheriff's personal glove. "A gift to aid your cause." The falcon master caught it somewhat clumsily. Guy did not envy his position, since the blame for the bird's behavior would land squarely on its trainer, and there would be little hope for the falconer if the thing did not return. It mattered not that it was the Sheriff who had misjudged the bird's condition for hunting before releasing it.

Guy could not be certain the Sheriff would assuage his disappointment by making the falconer pay with his life, but there was a good chance. Either that, or Vaisey would devise something worse than death. He drank in other people's pain like some men consumed wine. In contrast, Guy used pain only as a tool. He found it was not the most effective weapon. Ultimately, it was a waste of energy compared to fear. As long as you could keep up a certain concentration of terror, you could usually get a significant level of compliance. Resorting to pain meant you failed to mentally subjugate your victim, and they gained a slight upper hand. Not that this would save their hides, but it meant it would take more effort to achieve the results needed. But the Sheriff had little interest in such equations. The pain of others gave him a heady joy that was truly indecent.

While he was speculating on the fate of the falcon master, his horse had slowed to maintain its pace with the falconer's, who had nearly stopped his mount, and was scanning the sky over the open field. Seeing nothing, he pressed on toward the forest. Guy and the soldiers followed without a word. Three quarters of the way to the edge of Sherwood, they caught up with the scouts who had been deployed to keep an eye on the bird when it flew in the wrong direction. They had lost sight of it as it entered the forest. Guy instructed the scouts to fall in with his party, so that he now had three heavily armed soldiers, and two bowmen at his disposal. All of which would be useless in catching a two pound bird alive.

The distance between them and the wall of Sherwood diminished swiftly. How they would find the bird in the tangle, Guy could not imagine. But the falconer seemed to have some idea where to look—or was bravely pretending to in order to prolong his life—so they skirted the treeline. Guy supposed he was looking for the same things a falcon would; likely hiding places for prey, or other enticements for a predator to be drawn to. The man had raised the bird since it was a juvenile, honing its skill as a hunter. The Sheriff flew it once in a while, but the work of making it fit for use was done by the falconer, who might die if his understanding of the bird's nature was not solid enough to entreat its return.

Guy's horse trotted on, and he dutifully scanned the trees while he rode, but his mind wandered. The week had been uneventful, especially considering it was less than a fortnight since Robin and his outlaws had returned. When last he had seen Hood, Guy was pinned to the door of the inner keep by the rogue's arrows. He figured it was over for him then. The hatred in Robin's eyes burned as much as the knife slash he had etched across Guy's jaw. He despised Robin immensely, all the more so because the outlaw had chosen not to kill him. It was not pity, nor mercy, that kept Robin from ending it then. It was a fierce desire to watch Guy's suffering, rather than letting the Devil take him. Perhaps Robin was more like the Sheriff than he ever knew.

Robin Hood escaped that day, but Guy hardly cared at the time. The Sheriff could not be said to share that feeling. He had allowed Guy to wallow in his grief since returning from Acre, but he was beginning to find it tedious, and he was considering whether or not to discard his lieutenant in whatever way was easiest. When the Sheriff revealed this bit of information to him, Guy had snapped, making it clear as a winter's sky what he really thought of his lord. He knew with each word of dissension, he forged a nail in his own coffin, and afterward, he expected guards to come for him. No one openly scorned the Sheriff and got away with it. But Vaisey let it go, and even seemed glad that Guy had a bit of spark left. It was a strange revelation, that the Sheriff would tolerate such long-withheld honesty. It should have made him feel more bold, but it worked in the opposite way. He felt more trapped than ever. Nothing he could do would release him from the Sheriff's expectations. Guy knew he should have left then, but he did not. He did not dare ask himself why he chose to remain. Not yet.

The call of the falconer brought him back from his thoughts. Against all likelihood, the man had spotted his charge. The bloody thing was sitting in the boughs of a tall oak. The falconer dismounted, and walked about twenty paces away from the party. Extending his arm—upon which was the Sheriff's glove—he gave the sharp whistle for return. Although it was at some distance, Guy could clearly see the bird turn its head, but otherwise it remained immobile. Guy and the soldiers stayed in their saddles. The falconer lowered his arm, then extended it again, trying the signal a second time. Out of the corner of his eye, Guy caught one soldier nudging another, presumably jesting over the predicament of the falconer.

The day was a hot one, and the horses were already lowering their heads, beginning to seek out fodder in the dusty ground. Guy pulled back on the reins slightly, reminding his mount that it was not allowed to slack off. The horse performed valiantly under pressure, but the rest of the time it was impatient and bad tempered. Its disposition had not improved during his sojourn to the Holy Land. He wondered if it was because it had missed him. More likely, it was furious to see that he still lived.

The falcon was showing no sign of complying with the request to return. Guy's usual tactics of intimidation were lost on a wild bird, so he had nothing to do but wait. His own impatience for the falconer to succeed was growing. There were other tasks that needed to be overseen before the day was over, and this jaunt was not on the agenda.

A bee drowned by, followed by another, and he watched as they met in the air, tumbled over each other, then flew off in different directions. One of the soldiers' horses stamped and backed away from the treeline, agitated. The man calmed it, but Guy was suddenly alert to the possibility they were being watched. He said nothing, maintaining a bored look while the falconer parlayed with the bird, but he listened more intently to the surrounding forest.

The falconer was sending out a lure in hopes the raptor's instinct would supersede its wayward will. A partial dove carcass on a tether was spun in a wide arc around the falconer. Everyone watched the falcon. The falcon watched everyone, cocked its head at the lure, and ruffled its feathers.

Minutes passed, and although Guy had been listening for any sound from the forest, he heard nothing but insect chatter. He dismissed the horse's agitation for what it probably was—equine paranoia. Every horse had its own annoying quirks. Perhaps that one was afraid of leaves falling in the woods.

The summer sun was blazing down, and he could feel sweat trickling down his back. His heavy tunic was not exactly carefree summer garb, but it was better than the uniform of the men-at-arms, who were dressed in heavy mail, black cloaks, and helmets. He knew they were suffering silently, but would never let on for fear of his wrath. He also knew one of the keys to leading men was making sure they had something to do. They could forget their complaints as long as they had purpose. But there was little to do on the edges of the wood. He ordered them to dismount. At least they could find the scattered shade better.

Guy remained saddled, and moved his horse closer to the falconer. The lure had not achieved success so far, and he could see sweat on the falconer's brow. It was second nature to verbally threaten people into doing what he wanted, but he held back this time, allowing his proximity to hint that the man was running out of time. The falconer looked up pointedly at Guy as if to say "Yes, I know," and returned to his horse to retrieve something from a sack tied to the saddle. Guy was left to stare up at the rebellious bird.

When he thought about it, they were not much different, he and the falcon. They both killed for the Sheriff, and they were both too dependent to strike out on their own. He wondered which was the bigger fool. The bird, who killed prey, then gave it up for a few scraps of meat, or himself, who had given up whatever remained of his soul to follow the path to power. What powers the Sheriff bestowed upon him were not far from scraps themselves. But the bird had finally wised up and flew away. He envied the creature, and considered doing the same, come what may.

The falconer returned, having retrieved a live pigeon from the sack. Its body was wrapped in a leather band with small hempen loops covering it, but its wings were free to move naturally. The bird had a long tether attached to it which the falconer staked to the ground. Guy surmised the loops would act like snares if the falcon attempted to take the bait. He also assumed that, upon release, the pigeon would struggle frantically to get away, thus drawing in the raptor's attention. In actuality, once freed, it bobbed its head several times, pecked at something on the ground, and sat down. The falcon picked at its jesses, then preened a wing feather, underwhelmed by the sacrifice they were offering it. Guy sighed, and slumped a bit in his saddle. This was going to take the whole day.

His resignation was interrupted by a shout from one of his men. He jerked on the reins and his horse wheeled round dutifully. What he witnessed was just what he had feared, and he cursed himself for not listening to his instinct. That bloody turncoat, Allan a Dale, was throwing himself into the saddle of one his soldiers' mounts, while the soldier in question was struggling to extricate himself from a weighed net. The other men had drifted away from their mounts before the shout went up, and had to rush back toward the horses.

The man closest to Allan's mount tried to grab the horse's bridle. Allan held tight to the reins while digging his heels sharply into the beast. But instead of leaping into a gallop, the horse reared up, lashing out with its hooves. Allan clung on, but the soldier did not fare so well. A hoof clipped the man across the head, and he went down, while the horse fell to all fours again. Allan was struggling to get the animal to go in the direction he wanted before the soldiers could surround him. Just in time, he managed to force his mount into the woods.

Guy was not about to let Allan steal a horse. He had not forgotten about the Sheriff's orders, but catching Allan would likely be higher on his priority list as well. Of the four men that remained conscious, he shouted to two of them to go after Allan, and two to remain with the wounded man and the falconer.

"Stay here with him!" he shouted at one of the bowmen. "If the bird goes anywhere besides back to that glove, shoot it!" The falcon master looked like _he_ had just been threatened with death, but Guy did not care. His sense of camaraderie with the fowl only extended so far. If he could not escape this place, neither would it! He spurred his horse, and followed in the wake of the soldiers.

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Allan had a head start on his pursuers. Guy's horse caught up to the soldiers swiftly enough, and they let him take the lead. So far, Allan was following a game path, and the way was not too overgrown to ride swiftly. The summer foliage was a dense green wall rising on each side of the trail as they rode through Sherwood. The horses leapt over fallen tree limbs, and the riders ducked as sharp branches whisked overhead. Suddenly, Allan disappeared from view, and Guy heard his horse go crashing into the undergrowth to the side of the path. An indistinct shout went up, answered by another. Only moments later, Guy and the soldiers came to the spot on the path Allan had vacated. Not far off the path, he could make out Allan, still mounted, and another on foot, garbed in an earthy brown cloak, scrabbling toward him.

"Take them!" Guy shouted what, to him, seemed a pretty obvious order. The men-at-arms crashed into the brush, while the man on foot attempted to climb onto the back of Allan's horse. He had wide eyes, and was wearing a cap over his blonde hair. Guy recognized the figure now. It was that imbecile that followed Robin everywhere—Much.

Allan had certainly picked the wrong horse to steal. It wanted nothing to do with multiple riders, and reared up again, causing Much to abort his mounted escape. The soldiers reached Allan's position, and Much was cut off from him.

Much shouted, "Go!" then ran like a hare further into the warren of the woods. The soldier who had come up alongside Allan tried to engage him, but he was not interested in fighting, only fleeing. He ducked a sword strike, and kicked his horse into a gallop.

The other soldier was about to go after Much, but Guy checked him. Pointing in the direction Allan had gone, he shouted to the soldiers, "After _him_! Kill him if you have to, but bring him back!" He would see Allan's wavy-haired head on a pike before the day was through!

Guy urged his horse in the direction Much had taken. It was not hard to follow his trail, littered as it was with broken branches. But the forest was always kinder to those on foot, and Much used his familiarity with the area to make up for his lack of speed. Guy's horse was used to trampling through bracken and uneven terrain, but that only meant it would not balk if asked to do something dangerous. Guy had to find ways around many of the areas that Much cut through so the horse would not bravely break its leg.

Spidery oak branches hung low over the ground. As it passed through them, the horse lowered its head to protect its eyes, and Guy had to duck low as he felt the tree's fingers raking harmlessly across his back. Soon, he came across the cloak Much had been wearing. It was hopelessly snagged in a thorn bush, and probably cost Much a few seconds trying to extricate himself from it. He was not wrong. He spotted his quarry at a clearing ahead. Much halted, but Guy continued on, hoping to catch him in his hesitation. Much looked over his shoulder once, then lowered himself down from what Guy just realized was a very steep incline. Slowing his horse, he stopped at the point Much had dropped out of sight. Looking straight down from the crest of the hill, he could see Much struggling to find a path down the rocks, using the roots poking out of the ground to slow his descent.

From his vantage on top of the hillock, Guy saw the remains of an old abbey below. Presumably, Much hoped to hide out there. Guy was not about to leave his horse to venture down the hillside the way Much was going. He did not need to lose two horses and a bird in one day. But even taking the long way around, he could probably cut Much off before he reached the bottom. He turned his horse, and followed the crest of the hill along its downward direction.

The descent was rockier than expected, and was taking him in the opposite direction of where he ultimately needed to be. Once back on level ground, he turned to follow the base of the steep hillside toward where he figured Much should be. He could just make out the figure as it slipped and skidded the last few yards to the ground. Much did not waste time to see if he was being followed, but ran in the direction of the abbey. Guy's horse thundered along the open ground in pursuit.

Much was only a hundred yards away, but the man was almost to the outer gate of the ruined abbey. Guy could feel the rush of adrenaline as the hunt was about to be closed. Whether the quarry was animal, or human, it was all the same. The urge to catch that which sought to escape was natural in most predators, and he was no exception.

Guy unsheathed his sword, and spurred his horse to overtake Much, before he could bolt like a weasel into the ruins, making Guy's work more difficult. He could see Much finally chance a look back, and his eyes widened at the sight of the dark horse charging toward him. But in another moment, he was past the partially unhinged gate, tearing toward the door of the church itself. If it was closed and barred, it would be his last disappointment, because Guy was not going to let the thieving stoat live after years of nipping away unchecked.

But luck, as it often was, was with the outlaw. Guy slowed his horse to keep from breaking both their necks running into the crumbling abbey wall, and as he did so, he could see Much slip through broken oak doors only twenty yards away. He growled in frustration. He could either pursue him further, or leave him, collect his soldiers, and return to the castle. It would not look good if he failed to catch the outlaw, much less get the damned bird back.

Ultimately, pride tipped the scale in favor of pursuit, and he dismounted, tossing a loop of the reins around the crumbling iron gate. As long as he could flush his prey out of the ruins, Much would most likely try to surrender. But Guy just wanted the followers of Robin Hood to die. He would accept Much's surrender, then kill him without ceremony. Why the Sheriff always had to drag things out with pomp and ceremony was beyond him. He was not going to leave it to the Sheriff to decide this time.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter III

Guy ducked through the church entrance with sword drawn, pausing once inside the doorway. The noise of his footfall echoed against the barren stone. Parts of the roof had collapsed, letting in shafts of light, their edges defined by the dust swirling along the beams. His eyes took a moment to penetrate the dim lighting after the bright sun outside. He stood motionless, listening. If he guessed right, Much would have hidden himself wherever he could, in the short time he had.

Built generations ago, the abbey had been a modest structure, and there was little in the way of elaborate architecture. A double row of stone columns supported the remains of the vaulted roof. One wall was partly covered in a blackened and eroded tapestry, but it did not reach to the floor, and afforded no coverage for the outlaw to hide. A quick scan along the walls showed an alcove on each side, which might branch off. Guy did not want to be playing hide and seek in here forever. If he was not careful about eliminating all possibilities, his little ferret might yet backtrack and escape.

He looked closely at the floor, and a grin stole across his face. Even the sneaky stoat leaves tracks in the snow, but this one left a disturbance in the dust on the floor. The tracks led straight down the center of the nave, and toward the alcove to the left. Guy advanced further into the church, sword ready to strike. Upon closer inspection, the left alcove was shallow, lacking any shelter, and the tracks led to a cluster of pillars close to the transept.

Anger swelled within him. _The weasel expects to get away when cornered so perfectly!_ But he controlled his temper when he spoke, "Come out now, and I'll let you ride back to the castle in one piece. Waste any more of my time...," his voice grated more harshly, "and I promise your head may sit atop my saddle, and watch while your body is dragged along behind my horse!" Of course, he was not going to go to all that trouble. Far easier to put a sword through his guts and be done with it, but being around the Sheriff had taught him that some people were susceptible to more creative threats.

Despite the attractive offer, there appeared to be no takers. _Fine._ If he had any second thoughts about killing Much, this insolence drove them away completely. He strode without pause to the column at which the tracks ended, and made ready to skewer the idiot, taking care to stay out of range of a dagger attack. Much did not have a sword—or thankfully, a bow—when he was running away, but he did not doubt the man would try whatever close range weapon he had on him.

Pivoting swiftly around the pillar, he saw his target was standing with back pressed against the stone. But instead of the wide-eyed weasel he had been hunting, there stood a grizzled bear, wearing leather, and brandishing a very large stick. Guy's own eyes widened in disbelief, and he stood frozen for a second, until realizing that he had been tricked. The man they called Little John made use of this planned advantage and wielded the staff in an arc, aiming for his head. On reflex, Guy managed to block the blow with his sword, but the massive impact brought him a hair's-breadth from losing his grip on it. John pulled the staff back to ready another blow, and Guy retreated out of range.

Little John's staff was effective for all its primitiveness. Guy had fought against the man before, and remembered the vicious crack of the pole that knocked him off balance, allowing his captive to get away. He did not doubt the man could kill him with a well-placed blow to the skull. Looking for any way to get past the brute, he saw for the first time that he was surrounded. The blasted church had more hiding places than it first appeared. Much—having procured a bow from somewhere—had an arrow drawn and pointed at him. His expression was one of mildly suppressed panic, but that was typically the way he looked. To add insult to injury, Guy's ex-disciple, Allan, had apparently evaded capture as well. He now stood to John's left, with both his daggers drawn, but held casually, as if not committed to participating yet.

How this straightforward pursuit had turned into a fight for his own life, Guy could not fathom, until it dawned on him that the weasel had been bait to trap the wolf. The role of predator and prey had shifted, and Guy was not thrilled to try on the new persona.

He kept his sword leveled at John, but if Much let his arrow fly, it would be over. If they wanted him dead, they would do it, but there was a chance they wanted something else first. Giving up without a decent fight went against his nature, but he was no Roman hero, to throw himself on his sword rather than face defeat. His enemies would not get rid of him that easily. Although they had three against one, they were content to keep him at bay rather than make a move. He expected Robin Hood to make an entrance at any moment, likely with a cocky grin on his face that would turn his blood to boiling.

Guy glared at Much, "So, where is your boyfriend, anyway?" He was aware of Much's over-exuberant devotion to Robin. "Have you not given up on getting your promised estate out of him yet? Or is there something else between you two?" Much drew the bowstring just a hair more tautly, but said nothing.

He did not have long to wonder about it before he saw the dark silhouette of the monk, Brother Tuck, back-lit against the church doorway. He was a new meddler. Not long ago, the monk had played the outlaws and Guy against each other like chess pieces, to get Hood to show up on cue. He was not completely sure what had happened between the monk and Robin's gang, but Tuck had given him the information that led to the capture of Much, Allan, and John, only to cause enough commotion later that Robin managed to free them all. It made Guy look a fool in front of the Sheriff, Sir Jasper, and the gathered crowd. It galled him all the more since he did not easily put faith in anyone, and Tuck used his religious standing to lull him into an uncharacteristic trust. He seemed to have some idea Robin was of momentous importance, but Guy knew Robin was really just a pompous little piss. He hoped Tuck lived only so long as to be tragically disappointed with Robin.

As Tuck moved further into the church, Guy noted the satisfied smile on his face. He wondered if the leadership of the rabble had changed hands. He glanced at Much, and his heart sank to see the man's focus was in no way diverted from his target to the new arrival.

"It is good to see you again, Sir Guy," Tuck greeted him jovially, and he wondered if the holy man really meant it. Monks were a strange lot after all. They could convince themselves that burning heretics and witches was actually a kindness. He would rather have the Devil's lash than a kindness of that nature. At least you knew what you were getting.

Guy stared at him warily. Dressed in the grey robes of a holy man, Tuck wore a sword and a cruciform mace, but his hands remained folded over each other. Faint scars crisscrossed the back of one hand. They were the hands of a fighter, not a religious man. No timid weeper for the world was this one. Although it mattered little to him, he wondered where Tuck had come from.

He addressed Tuck grimly, "Last time we met, I promised you death if you lied to me. Have you come now to claim it?"

Tuck's voice was strong with self-assurance, "To claim my death, or yours? You must forgive me, my memory is vague on that issue."

"Why don't you fight me, and we can determine once and for all which it is!" Guy spoke with as much bravado as he could muster, considering he was outnumbered four to one. He doubted Tuck would fall for a challenge, but he was at a loss to think of anything else. The smile on the monk's face did not falter, and he dismissed Guy's challenge without comment.

"I'm afraid my friends cannot keep your attention arrested indefinitely. My companion," Tuck gestured toward Much, "will soon be feeling the strain of that bowstring, and I would spare us all the consequences of his fatigue."

Tuck crossed the nave to the side wall, and pulled down ropes that had once decorated the ragged tapestry. With a rope in each hand, he moved purposefully toward Guy from Allan's side, stepping in front of John, but careful not to block Much's aim. Guy's sword was now only a hand's-breadth from Tuck's chest. Guy looked him in the eye, and was unnerved by the absence of anger which the man projected. There was something else too, some promise those brown eyes hinted at, something more elusive than power, more important than love—redemption? _No._ Not for him. That _could_ not be.

Tuck stretched out his hand to the point of Guy's sword. He could feel the resistance of Tuck's dark skin against the steel. Guy looked down at his own hand holding the weapon, and an unbidden image of Marian in white flashed behind his eyes. The white swiftly turned red. His mind pricked with pain, as if it was his hand on the sword point, instead of Tuck's. He looked up again. The monk's eyes held his. Guy could kill him now. Like he had killed Marian. Unresisting. A sacrifice to the demons that owned his soul. Tuck had betrayed his trust, and he would be justified for the kill. But then another image surfaced, of the monk shouting at Robin not to kill him, when it had appeared Guy's murder was the only thing on Hood's mind. He knew not what to do with an enemy who did not desire his death. Shuddering, he lowered his eyes, and allowed the weapon to slip from his hand. Allan wandered over to retrieve the sword.

Guy thought he could hear genuine compassion in his voice when Tuck said, "Thank you. I know that was hard." As he spoke, he took Guy's arm, looping a rope around his wrist. The monk's lack of aggression had a placating effect on him. Although he felt like a naive calf going to slaughter, he let Tuck bring his arms together and bind them. Once his hands were tied, Tuck stepped aside, and Little John took over. He shoved Guy roughly against the same stone pillar he had foolishly believed Much was hiding behind earlier. John pushed him down till he was sitting with his back to the pillar, then passed the other rope around his shoulders, securing him to the stone. Only then did Much let the arrow down.

"Well, _that_ wasn't too difficult, now was it?" Much said with a relieved laugh. He turned to Tuck, "How did you know he wouldn't kill you?"

Tuck smiled grimly, "I did not. But I did not want to see blood spilled in the Lord's house."

Much raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "I assume that goes for your own as well! You are brave, or a fool."

Tuck shrugged, "I have faith that God has not quite finished with me yet—at least not today." He put a hand on Much's shoulder. "And I had your faultless aim to back me up."

Allan weighed in on it then, "That settles it, a brave fool it is. I mean, no disrespect intended Tuck, but have you ever seen Much try to shoot anything? Why do you think I was standing way over there?"

"I figured it was because you were waiting for us to do all the work, as usual," Much replied without pause.

Guy scowled at them all. There had been something greatly disturbing about Tuck's seeming ability to influence his thoughts, which their yapping was not pushing from his mind.

Much strode over to where Guy was sitting. "I guess you will have to postpone hacking me to bits now," Much said indignantly. "I mean really, what have you become exactly, the Sheriff's personal butcher? Cutting my head off and dragging me behind a horse is just too horrifically barbaric, even for you! Now, the Sheriff I could see, coming up with something that disgusting, but he would likely have made an event out of it. 'Everyone come see the parade of Much's body parts through the street, a penny a peek!'"

Guy waited for someone to say it, but no one did. Allan appeared to be daydreaming, probably of wine, nuns, and stealing everyone else's wealth. Robin would have said it. Even Guy knew you had to stop Much before he got started, or else you would be there a while. He had resigned himself to suffer through whatever they intended, but he had not bargained for this.

"And it isn't even accurate, is it?" Much continued, "I mean, I would hope I would not be able to see my body once my head had departed from it. It's ghoulish..."

Finally, Little John did the honors. "Much! Shut up."

Folding his arms across his chest, Much stalked away from Guy's pillar, "Fine! Just so long as he knows I am not going to be mincemeat Much any time soon!"

"Look," Guy said gruffly, "if Hood is not going to show up at this gathering, then get to the point."

"All in good time, friend," Tuck said calmly. The lack of Robin's presence intrigued Guy. This scheme felt different than the usual uninspired little jaunts of Hood. Guy wondered again if Tuck had usurped his place as king of the brigands.

Tuck nodded to Much, then took Little John aside to confer with him. They spoke for a minute, then John nodded, taking a seat on the stone steps to Guy's left, near what was left of the altar. Tuck glanced once more at Guy, then turned and made his way to the entrance. Much followed him, and they both disappeared from view. Still holding Guy's sword, Allan wandered off somewhere behind the altar, and out of his range of vision.

Little John was no soft-heart, and he had made sure the ropes securing him were just shy of painfully tight. Each time he inhaled, the leather of his tunic creaked against the lashings binding him to the pillar. He made a conscious effort to slow his breathing as the sound was annoying. Escape was not going to happen unless someone slackened their guard at a future time, so Guy scrabbled around in his mind for the patience to wait it out. As it was, he was morbidly curious about what they thought they were going to get out of this. Revenge? Maybe. But Robin had chosen to leave him alive when last they met. And Guy had not had time to do anything particularly vile to the man's beloved villagers since then, so it must be something else. If they thought they were going to get Vaisey to pay a ransom for him, they would be disappointed. The Sheriff would probably choke laughing at the idea.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter IV

Hours had passed since Much and the monk had gone. Looking through the broken sections of the roof, Guy could see the setting sun had stained the sky a dark amber. He wondered how the falcon master had fared. It was possible that either the pigeon, the falcon, or the man would be dead by now. He found he had little preference for which it might be.

He looked down at his bound hands. The ropes that held him were not of new make, and he considered how he might, with time, and no one to interfere, manage to loosen them. Guy could see Allan had chosen to fall asleep on what was once the altar stone. It seemed he was always making a blasphemous bed wherever he was. Unfortunately, Little John _was_ a dependable watchman, and was sitting on a step to his left, leaning on his staff.

It occurred to him that while Robin may have decided on his fate a fortnight ago, his men could have other ideas. He had certainly done his best to harass them over the years, and a desire for retribution on their part made sense. But he was becoming bored waiting to find out what they had planned. He decided to prod the bear a bit.

"So," he began loudly, waiting for the gleam of John's eyes to signal he was listening, "I once heard you were a leader of men before Robin came. It seems you had it good then, robbing folk, and doing what you wanted with the spoils. And you did not have to listen to Hood's pretentious speeches."

John glared out from under heavy brows, but said with simple conviction, "Robin is a good man."

Guy snorted, "That is not the only qualification for a leader. And Robin is not as good a man as he makes himself out to be. But I _do_ feel for him," he endeavored to sound sympathetic. "It must be difficult to appear righteous all the time when he's really a spoiled little git."

"_You_ are a murderer of women and children! What you think means nothing." John had not moved, but he shifted his grip on the staff just slightly. It was an unspoken threat, which Guy took to mean "Shut it, or you will be talking to the end of this." He let it go. John was not one to bluff. Guy did not like the man, but he had a fraction more respect for him than the rest. Although common as an ox at a fair, at least he was straightforward. Guy was naturally more like him than like Vaisey. He'd had to learn to be deceptive, and it did not come without effort.

He leaned his head back against the stone column. Since his captors did not feel a need to antagonize him, he was left alone with his thoughts. A thorough scrutiny of the unremarkable church he was trapped in only postponed his inevitable return to brooding on the topics which haunted him. It was what he dreaded the most. He stared at the rough stone floor, until the light began to fade, then his thoughts veered into the arena that he wished they did not have to fight in.

He hated that every moment he lived in fear of reliving the events in Acre, something that blasted monk seemed to know. It was a simple fact that when he had killed Marian, he killed part of himself. The memory caused a tightness in his chest, which was quite distinct from the pressure of the ropes binding him. Physical pain he could tolerate, but he had no defense against the assault of his own guilt. It was all the more acute since it was an emotion he had, hitherto, infrequently felt.

At times, he saw Marian clearly in his memory as a woman content only to use him. At other times, she was all he wanted, and he ached desperately for a second chance. He could have listened to Marian's last plea to leave with her, but it would have meant killing the Sheriff in Acre. And what would he have achieved then? She would have betrayed him. That had become clear at the end. She would have stabbed him in the heart, perhaps literally, or had Robin do it.

He never understood what Marian saw in Robin. Granted, he was an earl, and as such, would have been a far greater prize for her, but the man chose to be an outlaw. Guy could have understood her choice if it were not so, but it changed everything. The moment Robin set his resolve to defy the will of the law, he forfeited his wealth, status, and any right he had to the hand of a lady of Marian's quality.

He considered whether it was love on his part that had drawn him to Marian, or simply obsession. Like most obsessions, it was not rational, sane, or productive, but it was his. She had tried to refuse him many a time, but he ignored her attempts at dissuasion. Women wanted men to work for their favor, and though Marian sometimes felt like wasted effort, he was far too convinced they were suited to each other, at least in terms of lineage and station. And the more often he was around her, the more he found he genuinely cared about her.

Regardless of how she had used him, he still remembered a sense of peace that her presence gave him after their harrowing time defending the castle from the Prince's army. All he had to do was risk his life for her—such a small thing—and she rewarded him with true gratitude. He had not realized how much her friendship meant to him, until he did not have it. Things might have been different had he taken it slowly, and tried to persuade her more gently from that point on. But fate was an insatiable beast, devouring what might have been, and spitting out the bones of good intentions. The Sheriff's plans forced Marian to show her hand, and Guy had sided with the viper. He was incapable of breaking out of his thrall. And perhaps, in light of Marian's actions, he was right to have stayed by the side of the black devil.

Guy could not tolerate disloyalty. Marian knew this. She had seen for herself what happened to people who betrayed him. In the end, she died for her duplicity. Some days he felt vindicated, when he let himself consider the truth of his actions. Other days, he wanted to die for having carried out her sentence. His inability to reconcile one with the other made his life a hollow cycle. He wearied of the purgatory that his conscience had become.

By now, the abbey had become as dark as his thoughts. He supposed the outlaws learned to live without light, lest they reveal themselves at night. But no sooner had he thought it, than he was proven wrong. The flare of a torch kindled just inside the entrance of the church. The light illuminated Much holding the brand, and a moment later, the monk followed him through the doorway. The noise of their boots on the stone was quieter than he expected.

Yawning, Allan stretched and hopped down from the altar. Guy wondered how he ever thought that man would be useful for anything. He was a leech, from what Guy could see. Allan walked over to where Much was trying to prop the torch in a crumbling iron holder, commenting, "You lot took awhile."

"Sorry Allan, but we were trying to keep this event exclusive, rather than bring the whole army back with us," Much explained. "It took a little diversion..." he looked at Tuck, and the monk smiled knowingly, "...but it worked."

"No worries then," Allan said cheekily.

"Not for us anyway," Much replied enigmatically.

Guy felt he had been quiet long enough. "Is this what you do each night, pick a random victim to bore to death with your jabbering?" he asked testily.

Much turned on him. "You are _so_ much more than random. I would go so far as to call you the guest of honor, if I thought you had even a shred of it," he said with loathing.

A thought struck Guy then, and he unwisely verbalized it, "Your band of fools seems smaller than it once was, Much. Whatever happened to that Saracen whore?"

A darkness passed over Allan's usually blithe countenance, and he moved a few paces closer. Guy was savagely thrilled to have found something to goad Allan with.

He grinned wolfishly, "Oh Allan, did you have a soft spot for her? I'm sure she had one for you, many a time. Or, did she prefer that Scarlett boy? Where is he—off playing with his wood?"

Allan had actually drawn one of his daggers, but Tuck put up a hand to stop him, "Do not let his words get to you. Falsehoods have no power over truth."

"That's easy for you to say. You didn't know her," Allan said seriously.

"Enough." Tuck's voice was firm, affording no room for argument. "John," Tuck motioned toward Little John, and the big man stood, crossing the distance between the cold stone steps and Guy.

"Looks like Tuck made you his personal henchman, John," Guy said with a sneer. "Is that a step up or down from how Robin uses you? I remember you were more of an animal than a man, as far as he was concerned."

By way of answer, Little John reached down with one large hand, and wrapped it tightly around his neck. Guy drew an involuntary breath. It was going to be harder to insult them with less air in his lungs, but he vowed to find a way.

Tuck moved to John's side. Reaching into a pouch on his belt, he brought out a small vile of—something. Poison maybe? Guy could not be sure.

"Where is Robin?" Tuck asked simply. The rush of blood in his ears was becoming very loud, but he heard Tuck clearly enough.

"How should I know?" Guy was nonplussed by the question. "Didn't he get an invitation to this party?" John tightened his grip, and Guy decided they were being serious. Tuck put a hand on Little John's arm, and John released his throat.

Coughing, Guy looked at Tuck. "So, your Messiah has gone missing," he jeered. If true, this was excellent news.

"Yes, and you had better start telling us what you did with him!" Much demanded.

"The _only_ thing I would do is kill him. You would be too late," Guy stated matter-of-factly.

"Well _you_ would kill him, because you lack creativity, but you do the Sheriff's dirty work, and _he_ would not kill Robin without a demonstration of some kind," Much explained.

That was true. The Sheriff was really to be blamed for Robin's continued existence more than anyone. He had numerous opportunities to execute him, yet he insisted on making a public spectacle, and losing his quarry each time. Sometimes, Guy wondered if the Sheriff actually wanted to lose Robin, like a cat that mauled a mouse, then let it crawl away so it could replay the chase. The Sheriff certainly did not act pleased, but who knew what really went on in his head? Guy hoped he never learned to understand him that well. The way the day was turning out, he probably would not.

"Perhaps he's jealous of your zealous new leader, and ran away to find some new lackwits to follow him." The cautious part of Guy's mind knew he should not keep badgering them, but he had so little to lose—only his life—and what did he really care for that anymore?

Tuck was not flustered by the crude jab, "Perhaps. But more likely he is somewhere in your keeping, and we need you to tell us exactly where he is."

Guy smirked, "Why assume he's in _my_ keeping? If the Sheriff wants him for something, he does not have to tell me."

"He always did before," Allan offered.

"Yeah, well that was a different time, wasn't it? _You_ remember Allan, when we were all a big happy family." Allan looked slightly uncomfortable. Guy pressed on, "But these days, if the Sheriff wants him alive, he might not mention it, since I might be compelled to break his toy before he can play with it." Which, for all Guy knew, was exactly the truth.

"You do not have the guts to defy him," Much accused. Guy stared back silently, wondering inwardly whether or not that was true.

"Unfortunately," Tuck interrupted, "the burden is not on you to persuade us, but on us to persuade you." The four men stood in a semi-circle in front of Guy, the torchlight causing their shadows to creep and flow across the floor. To him, they looked like demons awaiting their dinner.

Guy looked scathingly at Tuck, "Don't knock yourself out on my behalf."

"It will take little effort on my part," Tuck said with a shrug. He held up the vile of liquid. "I've been told you have already been acquainted with a substance similar to this. It is oil of vitriol, and of great potency."

_So, that was it_, thought Guy. It was not poison, but liquid fire. The Sheriff had used it on him years ago. He knew that it would heal—if he lived beyond today—but it would hurt like mad first. He did not relish going through it again.

Looking at Tuck, he smiled mirthlessly, saying, "You must share your recipe with the Sheriff. The two of you could go into a partnership."

It was apparent Tuck's tolerance, for what he likely saw as an attempt to steer away from the point, was beginning to ebb, but he replied complacently enough, "Sadly, I do not know the formula. I have only a small amount."

"What a pity. Waste not, want not," Guy advised sarcastically.

Tuck's patience had come to an end, "Rest assured, I have just enough for this task." He motioned to John, who slipped his staff between Guy's arms. He braced the wooden pole against the rope binding his hands together, and stretched his arms out in front of him.

Tuck proposed his question again, "Tell me where Robin is, or you _will_ become reacquainted with this rare commodity." His tone was dire.

"I've no idea," Guy admitted guilelessly.

Tuck looked sadly at him, then without hesitation, inverted the vile over the back of Guy's bare hand. Several drops collected on his skin, and he tensed, waiting for the pain. In seconds it felt warm, then hot, and then it _was_ fire, seeping through layers of skin. John held the staff firmly, and Guy could do nothing except grit his teeth, and try to remember that it would not go on forever.

Amid his suffering, he looked at the faces of his captors in the torch light, and saw it took them some effort to overcome their aversion to causing pain to others. Regardless of what that meant for him, he sneered at their weakness. He had practically lived in the castle dungeon, checking on the progress of the torturers in extracting secrets from various criminals. While rarely inflicting the damage himself, he had precious little pity for their suffering. One became used to it after a while, especially if it was a lawful measure to prevent further infractions. People had the choice whether they would admit to their crimes and undergo the sentence, or continue to be tortured. Of course, there _were_ the rare cases of false accusation, or mistaken identity, in which the accused had nothing to confess. For the first time, he began to see their point of view, given his current situation.

The excruciating part of the ordeal subsided slightly, as the chemical reaction came to the end of its course. John removed his staff, and Guy pulled his hands back, careful to avoid looking at the damage done.

Tuck dropped to one knee next to him, as if to share a confidentiality. "You bore that well, and I only wish I could appeal to your conscience to tell me, instead of resorting to fear, but..."

"But he doesn't have one of those," Much interrupted.

"Everyone has one, Much," Tuck said sagely, "but it takes greater skill, and more time than I possess, to get the results I need. So, we are left with tactics that will burden my own conscience. Thankfully, the Lord is willing to hear my confession, and to forgive, so I will manage."

For once, Guy refrained from saying anything snide. That thing about the mercy of monks was coming back to haunt him. He wished now he had taken Tuck down when offered the chance. Much would have shot him, but at least his fate would have been in his own hands. "Lesson learned," the Sheriff would have said.

Tuck continued gravely, "I will ask you one last time. Where is Robin?" Tuck looked pointedly at him, as if willing him to see reason. But this time, Guy turned his head away, annoyed with the monk's self-righteous certainty that he would get what he was after.

Guy could have lied. Allan certainly would have. Allan would have invented ten different stories in five minutes, with none of them being very convincing. But Much was right about one thing. Guy lacked creativity. It would have been easier to hide information if he had it, but inventing a plausible story, one that would not make him laugh when he heard it, was impossible. The irony was not lost on him that this time, the truth—however useless to him—was on his side.

Raising his head, he stared malevolently back at Tuck. "I've given you my answer," he said with weary resignation.

Tuck's eyes went cold, and Guy saw his compassion turn aside, replaced by a warrior's resolve. Tuck remained kneeling, but signaled again to Little John, and Guy tried to prepare himself for the worst. John moved behind the pillar, bringing his staff around in front of Guy's throat. He put pressure against the bottom of his jaw, angling his head backward, until Guy was staring at what remained of the dark ceiling.

In his peripheral vision, he could see Tuck was still at his side, holding the vile purposefully. "This will cause blindness. You can avoid it if you will tell me what I need to know." He spoke softly, but the words were all the more frightening for their gentleness. Guy felt panic attempt to grab hold of his mind and shake him into doing anything to postpone the action.

"Wonder what the Sheriff will do with a blind hound," Much mused.

"Probably toss it in a pit with some angry boars, and watch the fun," Allan suggested.

"You seem to know just what the Sheriff likes, Allan," Guy rasped out. "Perhaps you would like to take my place at the castle, once you've finished with me!"

"Nah, I'm good here," Allan declined cheerfully.

Guy could actually see the stars through the broken ceiling of the abbey—possibly the last thing he would be seeing. Allan was right about the Sheriff. This was as good as a death sentence. If Vaisey ever got a hold of him after this, he would only add further to his misery, before ending his useless existence.

Tuck's voice was a whisper at his ear, "Last chance."

Guy swallowed involuntarily, almost choking as the pole dug into his throat. Tuck brought the vile right in front of his eyes. His heart was racing, but he was powerless to veer from the course of honesty he had doggedly set to. He struggled uselessly against the ropes holding him. There was no denying he was scared, but less of the pain than of his future. He would become everything he despised, helpless and pitiable. He could imagine no worse fate.

A part of his mind screamed at him to beg for mercy. Surely a monk would not be deaf to such a plea, but there was a stronger part of him that would not humble himself before his enemies. There were things that one grasped at, even in the darkest of times. The knowledge that he did not break would be his strength in the aftermath.

No longer able to bear it, he shut his eyes tightly, though it would do little to protect him. The oil was strong enough to burn through the lids. Tuck upturned the vile, and Guy's whole body went rigid as he felt the liquid drip into one eye, then the other. His mouth was set in a snarl, and his breath hissed past bared teeth, as he waited for the torment to begin.

What felt like endless moments passed, but the expected agony did not come. The crushing pressure of the wood across his neck disappeared. His brows furrowed in disbelief, and he slowly opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to focus through the haze. Reflexively shaking his head, his hair fell in front of his eyes as he darted a glace at Tuck.

Tuck's flint-like gaze had softened slightly, and there was the hint of an ironic smile at the corner of his mouth. "It is holy water, nothing more," he said, in answer to Guy's unspoken query.

Rage and euphoria washed over Guy in equal measure. His muscles trembled as he allowed some of the tension to abate slightly.

"Ye never know, it might burn an evil bastard like him anyway," John commented.

Allan grinned, "That was brilliant slight-of-hand, Tuck! You could make a living in the taverns fleecing the customers, if the holy man thing doesn't work out for you."

Tuck stood then, speaking to Guy, "I believe you are telling the truth."

Still recovering from the near miss of losing his sight, Guy did not care what Tuck was saying. But he felt cautiously elated that he had been spared a fate worse than death, at least for the moment. He unclenched his hands, only then noticing his nails had been digging deeply into his palms.

"Dammit!" Much swore, throwing up his arms. "_Now_ how will we find Robin?"

"You should ask the Sheriff yourself," Guy offered harshly. "You know he would break down and tell you, if given the same offer you gave me. Of course, he would lie the first time."

"Ha! Some loyal hound you are, offering up your master like that," Much admonished.

Allan laughed, "Getting tired of working for the old man?"

Tuck's interest perked up at that. "You know, it is not impossible...," he said cryptically.

It took Guy a moment to recognize that Tuck was talking to him. "What is...isn't, impossible?"

"You could join with us, and fight against the Sheriff," Tuck proposed earnestly.

"Ohhh no!" Much's hands went out in front of him to push away the thought.

"No!" Little John said firmly, at almost the same time.

Allan looked askance at Tuck. "Careful Brother, or you'll have a mutiny," he cautioned.

Tuck seemed undaunted by the negative reception to his idea. "Perhaps, as the recipient of our mercy, Sir Guy would see the error of his ways, and make peace with us." Tuck was nothing if not recklessly optimistic.

"I don't know guys. Mercy is great in theory..." Allan began, "...but I'm not sure it should apply to everyone," he finished tentatively.

"The Lord has infinite capacity for mercy," Tuck reminded him.

"Yeah, maybe He does, because He has infinite power to deal with blokes like this. You haven't been here that long, Tuck. Let me assure you, this one's irredeemable. I wouldn't want to regret our kindness." Allan tried to make Tuck see reason on the issue.

Much moved to stand next to Allan. "I have to say I agree with Allan on this. Gisborne is a plague on Robin's life. And, by association, on mine as well."

Tuck would not be dissuaded so quickly. "But Robin made the choice to let him live. He of all men had the greatest grievance, but he was able to forgive."

Much was beginning to get worked up having to defend his point, "I am not sure it's as simple as you make it sound. Robin would never forgive a crime that awful."

Tuck's face still held a look of certainty, pushing Much to the limits of his patience. "For the Lord's sake, Tuck, he _killed_ Marian! You didn't know her, but she...she was a woman like few others. And this..." he stabbed a finger in Guy's direction, "..._animal_...cut her down! I will _not_ be part of a gang that accepts him!" The last sentence echoed through the church. He walked beyond all of them and stood with his hands on the altar stone, face turned away.

When no one said anything, he continued on with a bit less certainty, "If I must, I will strike out on my own...seek my fortune elsewhere." Guy could tell he was attempting to sound brave, but he saw the man's eyes dart back to Tuck's face to see if his point was made, so he would not have to follow through on the threat.

Much's exhortations against him were a waste of time, as Guy had no intention of joining them. Since their group appeared on the point of fracture, he took a chance, pushing the issue, "So if I'm not forgiven, who's going to be executioner then? Allan?"

Allan backpedaled, "Don't look at me. I hate you for what you did, but...it's really hard to kill someone you know," he finished lamely.

"Just how well _did_ you know him?" Much asked Allan pointedly.

Allan looked slightly defensive, "Well, not _that_ well, but...you know?" Much stared at him.

Guy turned a vulpine smile on him, "If you'd like, Allan, we could compare stories and see just how you tried to fool us both. But I can tell you now, the only person you really fooled was yourself...into thinking you had any scruples."

Allan's blue eyes sparked at the accusation, "So, what? Because I don't openly kill women and maim people, I'm immoral? That's rich coming from you, Guy!"

"No, you just allowed it to happen." Guy let the truth of his words sink in. "I'm sure your memory doesn't serve you that well, but Roger of Stoke had you to thank for his eternal retirement. And there were so many more."

Even from his vantage point on the floor, he could see Allan pale a bit as he waited for the condemnation of his fellows. But Much appeared to have realized they were only playing into Guy's hands with their quarrel, and spoke up before the silence became a deadly weight.

"Gisborne, your attempts to disrupt our group are weak. We are one hundred percent reconciled," Much said with conviction. Allan looked relieved.

"That's a comfort," Guy remarked unconvincingly. "But I would watch my back with him," he inclined his head toward Allan, "if I were you."

"Fortunately," Much said snippily, "we _aren't_ you. _We_ are not cold-blooded killers."

Guy cocked his head at that. Normally, he would have conceded this point, but tonight he was determined to throw whatever he could back in their faces. "No? Have you ever added them up?"

"Added what up?" Much asked before he could stop himself.

"The number of my men you've feathered with arrows," Guy clarified. "Without even a warning to give them a chance to prepare their souls for eternity."

Much's self-righteousness faltered just a fraction.

"Have you?" Guy nearly shouted, his voice hoarse and full of scorn. "One minute they are lawfully performing their duty, the next dragging their last breath past a wooden shaft stuck in their lungs. I suppose because they try to make an _honest_ living, these men are below beasts on your scale of humanity."

Much looked heavenward, as if asking for the strength to deal with such hypocritical statements. "That's just it, they aren't honest and lawful! They chose to serve the Sheriff, and to oppress their fellow men. We are fighting a battle against the overbearing cruelty of your master! They become the enemy as much as he is."

"All they did was follow orders. You may hate the Sheriff and myself, since obviously we're the cause of every injustice in the land," he said mockingly, "but the men you kill without a second thought are just trying to survive, like the farmers and tradespeople you so love. Everyone has a duty to perform. Everyone but you."

Much stared at the floor, then blinked, shaking his head, "Alright, we're killers, just like you. Are you happy? Why do I bother to argue with you?"

Tuck broke in, ignoring the entire argument, "John, what say you on it?" Guy had all but forgotten they were still debating what to do with him, now that he was again worthless to them.

"He deserves to die," John said plainly. Guy's hopes dwindled. Tuck would likely listen to John, and between those two, they would probably have the guts to carry it out.

"But...you can't kill a man this way," John continued, looking down at him. "We must be better than him." _These bleeding hearts are priceless,_ Guy thought, stifling a grin.

Tuck seemed happy to have found at least one enlightened member in his flock. "That is what I was thinking. Do you all agree we must be better men?" he asked heartily. Tuck looked at Allan and Much in turn, while Guy raised a mocking eyebrow at Much.

Much's eyes narrowed. "I was of the assumption we already were," he said with some heat. Tuck waited for a further commitment of stance from the two of them.

Looking at the ground, Allan answered, "Yeah, Tuck, I guess you're right."

Much rolled his eyes, "Fine! But don't expect him to lick your hand like a repentant puppy!"

"Those who do the deeds of the Lord expect nothing in return," Tuck intoned.

"Then I guess you'll never be disappointed!" Much said with exasperation.

Tuck's attention turned back to Guy. "Our audience with you must end."

"How sad," Guy said disdainfully. He did not know what they were going to do with him now, but even so, he could not stop himself from digging at Much a bit more for having caused him such pointless misery, "It's a shame, Much, that I couldn't help you find Hood. I would look in the neighboring shires. Perhaps he's taken a shine to a new fair-haired lackey. Although, I fear he'll never find one as mindlessly devoted as yourself."

Much turned to Little John then. "May I borrow that?" he asked, holding his hand out toward John's staff. John handed it over. This time Tuck did not stop him.

The last thing Guy saw was Much stride toward him, raising the pole. Then a bright explosion of pain, and a swallowing darkness, knocked all thought from his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter V

A chill invaded his subconscious, and Guy became aware of the sensation of cold stone against his face. He tentatively opened one eye. Everything glowed the deep azure of predawn, and for a baffling moment, he could not recall exactly where he was. Slowly, the shapes of pillars came into bleary view, and as the structure of the church became more of an entity, he remembered what had brought him to the place. He was lying on the stone floor of the abbey, but was no longer bound. He winced as he moved his head. It felt as if the right side of his skull was fractured. He was just thankful it was Much who gave the blow, and not Little John. He raised himself up on his elbows, and his vision darkened. After a moment, he could see the stones of the church again. Venturing to stand, he found it was achievable with slight difficulty.

They had kept his sword, of which he was not surprised, but upon reaching the gate of the abbey, he found they left his horse. He supposed they did not want to deal with the ill-natured thing. As it was, the reins had become entangled in the ironwork, leaving it with almost no slack to move its head. The beast was wide-eyed, and snorted murderously as he approached. He had a difficult time trying to extricate it calmly. Once freed, it took a lot of coaxing to keep it from lashing out over having been neglected for hours. Patting its nose, he talked quietly to it, "You think you had it bad. Should have seen the fun I've been having."

After the horse's ire had subsided, he hauled himself into the saddle, and tried to figure out which direction the castle was in. To say he had chased Much blindly through the forest was an understatement. He had been as mindless as a hound after a hart. Fortunately, the sun was only just rising, and it would be a simple task to keep it on his left side while heading south. Sooner or later he would meet up with one of the main roads.

His hand still felt scorched from where Tuck had used the oil. The monk's methods might have worked, had he known the information they were seeking. He could only hope Hood really had met some horrible fate already, but with his luck, he would almost certainly see the man alive again. He swore if ever he laid eyes on him, he would not rest till Robin had sucked his last breath, and the flies were left to fornicate in his flesh.

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Guy was not sad to part company with his disagreeable stallion, once they finally arrived at the castle around mid-morning. A messenger was sent to notify the Sheriff of his return, while he procured a sword from the sergeant-of-arms. It was not a fine blade, but it would suffice for the time being. The sergeant informed him that the soldiers returned yesterday evening with the wounded man, and the falconer. Assuming the worst, he did not ask about the bird.

He was fatigued, and in nearly as vile a temper as his horse, but he knew the Sheriff would expect an immediate account of the events. He trudged through the castle corridors, and up the stairwell leading to the Sheriff's quarters. When he arrived, one of the guards informed him the Sheriff had business he was attending to, which might keep him away a little while.

Guy bristled at the vagueness of this answer. "What do you mean by 'a little while'? Minutes, hours?" he asked brusquely.

The guard answered quickly, "They are the Sheriff's words, Sir Guy. He has been notified of your return, so I can only assume he will not be long."

"Do me a favor, and do not assume anything about our Sheriff!" Guy was not sure why he was getting so aggravated. It was not as if Vaisey knew he would return at this hour, but he felt the need to take his frustrations out on something. Not that it mattered. These were the Sheriff's guards. Compared to him, Guy was an amateur when it came to berating them. He wondered what business this was which he knew nothing about. He felt ever more certain his place at Vaisey's right hand was ebbing away.

He debated whether he should stay and wait, or leave to return later, the latter affording him a chance to get refreshment and rest. Except it was very likely he would return too late, as far as Vaisey was concerned, and then he would have to hear about his lack of punctuality again. No, better to drag the unpleasantness of the day out a while longer. Then he could wander off to the tavern, and forget the whole nightmare. At least until tomorrow.

"I'll wait," he said stiffly. The guards uncrossed their halberds and allowed him entry to the Sheriff's quarters. The chamber was dominated by a long, stout table, and several chairs of oak, the largest of which had falcon heads carved into the arms. The room was surprisingly austere for someone of the Sheriff's standing. Vaisey may have been debauched in spirit, but he was oddly restrained when it came to surrounding himself with the trappings of wealth.

Guy found he was not entirely alone in the room. One of the frivolities the Sheriff allowed himself was a collection of small birds in cages; finches, sparrows, starlings, both common and rare. Holding court over them all, was a large goshawk, standing motionless on its perch near the Sheriff's chair. It was hooded, resting with one foot curled into its feathers. The bird was a different one than he had been chasing yesterday. This one had the dubious honor of living in the Sheriff's chamber, and it was Vaisey's favorite, never failing to return to him. It reminded him of his thoughts from the previous day. Again, he felt a sickening familiarity with this avian avatar. The hawk was placidly waiting for the Sheriff to bestow his attention on it. It could wait all day. Guy did not have the patience to wait all day, but he knew that was quibbling over details. Ultimately, like the hawk, Guy had learned to accept the conditions of his captivity in the castle. He might be allowed to go free, but was always expected to return.

It was not as if a trained hawk never attempted escape. But when it found itself hanging upside down, tangled in the jesses, it swiftly learned not to try again. Guy did not have anything so obvious as chains keeping him here, though he supposed that if he tried to find fortune elsewhere, he would also be in danger of hanging from a cord. No. It was worse than that. It was something intangible that could not be fought against. Because up until recently, he did not even know it was there.

The question which had been nagging at him crept back into his mind, demanding he finally find the courage to answer it. Why _did_ he come back here? After everything that had happened, all the horrors and disappointments—for which the Sheriff was, in part, responsible—Guy still returned to this dark roost. Like the hawk, he had lost all ability to question the summons.

He had always understood it as a sense of duty. Even when he had little respect for the person, he still respected the Sheriff's position. Perhaps it was an inherited trait from a lineage of nobles who had been devoted to their lords, but there was something deep in him that felt the need to serve loyally. If the Sheriff were to release him alive from his service, he would be more lost than if he was imprisoned. But _was_ the reason he always returned due to loyalty? He was very suspicious that the answer was no. Recently, there were moments when he was able to view his situation dispassionately. It was at these times that he began to recognize his devotion was the result of careful conditioning, which the Sheriff—ever a skillful manipulator—had long ago overseen.

He'd had nowhere else to turn when he first entered into the Sheriff's service, and Vaisey had been quick to lay the groundwork of a long running dependency. From early on, Guy had been raised to accept the harshness of the Sheriff's rule. Vaisey kept him as insulated as possible, playing up the fact that Guy had nothing if not for his benevolence. It was not incredibly dissimilar to the way a juvenile hawk was tethered, and kept hooded, so as to know only the sound and caress of its master. The hawk had no love for the master, and neither did Guy for the Sheriff. But the hawk was trained to see the master as the source of life. It learned to undervalue its abilities, and deify the human. Although capable of survival on its own, its spirit—if not its instinct—was subdued and tamed.

Likewise, Guy saw the Sheriff as the only means of achieving what he felt he was destined for. In return for following Vaisey's orders without question, the Sheriff rewarded Guy with a position resulting in power above nearly everyone else. He knew he was unique in being the only one to receive the Sheriff's favor without having power to offer in return. But this lofty reward could be removed at any time, and Guy was always keen to avoid this.

The Sheriff might not have spent a large amount of time training his hunting birds, but he understood the equations needed to keep them in order. Like a hawk who was kept just hungry enough to motivate it to perform well, the Sheriff made sure Guy was always left with the uncertainty of his continued status. But both hawk and man needed reinforcement occasionally, or they would question the whole point of servitude.

The Sheriff had slipped up yesterday. Some mistake in judging his falcon fit to perform had led to its going rogue. Guy wondered when Vaisey would make the same mistake with him. He was weary of it all. The shock of Marian's death had begun to break the conditioning, opening a hole in his mind. A hole that was fast filling with apathy, and ever more dangerous thoughts of dissent.

He heard the halberds of the guards slide apart a moment before the Sheriff entered. Guy had not even wrenched his attention away from the goshawk before a question was barked sharply at him.

"Gisborne, where the hell have you been?" Vaisey surged into the room, snapping his fingers at the chubby page who followed him. He pointed without word to a bench, upon which rested an ewer of wine. The page raced to pour his lord a goblet. The Sheriff's abrupt intrusion on his thoughts put Guy in a worse temper than was wise.

"Long story," he answered shortly. He saw the Sheriff's anger flare, but it was dampened the next moment.

Guy was tired, and knew the combination of irritation and weariness could cause him to say something he would later regret. The Sheriff was like a small barrel of Greek fire. It would only take one spark and the whole thing might blow up. Also, he did not relish explaining how much of a fool he had been, but there was no hope of putting it off till tomorrow. The Sheriff's attention was his punishment for failure.

Vaisey motioned toward one of the oaken chairs. "Do sit down and tell me your harrowing tale," he commanded sarcastically.

With no choice but to comply, Guy took the proffered seat with vague trepidation. He was no longer afraid of much in the world, but the Sheriff still caused him a certain anxiety that he was at a loss to understand. It had nothing to do with his threats, which were so commonplace as to be meaningless. The trouble was, Vaisey was the only person left alive who had any expectations of him, and that meant he was all the more compelled not to disappoint him. He knew it was all bound up with his misplaced "loyalty". If he could ever unravel the secrets of the Sheriff's conditioning, he would finally be free to live or die without the man's control. But that would take more mental effort than he could currently devote to it.

Guy began to recount the events of the previous day in as straightforward a manner as he could. The Sheriff could turn words into weapons, and he had learned an economy of speech was best when dealing with him. Even then, he did not get half of the way through the account before Vaisey interrupted him.

"Gisborne, you are _not_ a very good storyteller," he said petulantly. "Where's the excitement? I mean, four against one? This should be scintillating drama, but you make it sound utterly dull!"

Guy lowered his head, looking listlessly at the floor. The Sheriff waved his hand dismissively.

"I've heard enough anyway. I assume Robin never turned up, and you managed to survive, so it was an unhappy ending for all." His laughter was a harsh staccato. "Well, all except for me." Guy looked up questioningly.

"Did you not know?" the Sheriff asked. Guy's silence was answer enough. Vaisey appeared elated. "My falcon returned to the falconer. Right after you went off on your little holiday in the woods. I think all she was waiting for was for you to go away."

The Sheriff crossed the room to stand next to his goshawk. In one practiced motion, he unhooded it, then stroked the feathers of the bird's breast. The hawk shook its head, snapping its beak rapidly. Vaisey was uncharacteristically gentle with the fierce creature. The fact that it tore other birds to pieces did not appear to bother him in the least. He seemed to love it for its efficient brutality. The Sheriff cooed to his feathered minion, "Ah, but you would never leave me, now would you?" Guy stole a glance at him to confirm he was actually speaking to the bird.

Vaisey drained the last of the wine from his goblet. The page hurriedly fetched the ewer before he could call for another, then stood waiting at his elbow. He appeared to notice the boy for the first time. He took the vessel, and dismissed the page with no more than a subtle look toward the boy, and then an equally subtle nod toward the door. Guy supposed this was a new experiment, to see how attentive he could train his new page to be with silent commands. The boy responded with only a momentary delay. Bowing, he turned, and tried not to appear like he was fleeing the room.

The Sheriff shook his head, sighing. He poured himself wine from the ewer. Then, before placing it back onto the bench, poured another goblet for Guy. The Sheriff offered it to him without a word.

Guy took it with a slight hesitancy, causing Vaisey to snap, "Dear God, Gisborne, get over yourself! You think I would waste poison on your worthless hide?"

But he had mistaken the cause of Guy's apprehension. It was Vaisey's generosity he was startled by. It was like waking to find a spider dangling over your head, one which you could never be sure was venomous or not. It was too rare, and too out of place.

But Vaisey had already warmed to his tirade, "Do you think I would have you killed for failing me yesterday?" His voice was full of incredulous anger, "That was _nothing_ compared to what I've forgiven you for already! If you had not been blinded by what you thought was love for that woman, we would have killed the King in Acre, and achieved our goals by now."

It was true, the Sheriff's vision of England was one he shared. It would take power from that short-sighted barbarian of a king, and hand it to his younger brother. Not that Prince John was any less a scoundrel. Rumor had it the Prince was as mad as a badger in a basket. But the Sheriff saw him as more tractable, and could be pushed in certain ways, with the right technique.

The Sheriff paced in front of the long table, continuing to point out the consequences of Guy's failings, "But now, because of your legendary incompetence, the Prince expects us to raise a thousand crowns each month from a shire that is already dried up. Now tell me, Gisborne, why should I be concerned?"

Guy did not bother to dance around the answer, saying bluntly, "Because the Prince will have your head if you don't." He drained his goblet. If it was poisoned, he might as well get it over with. And anyhow, it _was_ good wine. He perched the empty vessel on the arm of the chair.

The Sheriff paused in his stride to look pointedly at Guy. "_Our_ heads, yes. Try not to forget that small but important point. It is not just my impending misfortune, but yours as well. The Prince is not one to do things by halves."

"So, if I am of no use to you, why don't you just kill me?" Guy asked flippantly, but only to hide his genuine curiosity. He knew even mentioning it was dangerous, but he was tired of living with the question looming over him each day.

The Sheriff resumed his pacing. "That _would_ be the lazy way out, wouldn't it? No, you are going to work as hard as anyone to get us out of this hole. We will get through this little setback. You and I, together. But not if you continue to have this...confusion of purpose."

Guy considered this statement. It seemed the Sheriff _did_ still need him. But he was not sure he still needed the Sheriff.

"But fear not," Vaisey said grinning. "I am actually in an excellent mood today!"

"You could have fooled me," Guy muttered.

There was a flash of red, as candlelight reflected off the Sheriff's ruby-studded smile. Leaning over his chair, the Sheriff laid a patronizing hand on Guy's shoulder. "That is hardly a challenge, now is it?" Vaisey breathed into his ear. Even layers of leather were not enough to protect Guy from the chill the Sheriff's touch sent to the base of his skull. His nails dug into the wood of the chair, and it took the last of his control to stay seated. The Sheriff's keen eye caught the slight motion, drawing his attention to the burn on Guy's hand.

"What happened there?" he asked, pointing to the mark.

Guy glanced up at the Sheriff sullenly, "Nothing. Just another part of my dull day."

Vaisey clicked his tongue. "Aww, you poor thing," he said with mock concern.

Guy hated Vaisey's solicitude more than his wrath. He likened it to a snake sliding around his neck, all coldness and constriction. He'd had as much of Vaisey's attention as he could take for the day. He stood abruptly, knocking the empty goblet off the arm of the chair. Crossing his arms, he waited impatiently for the Sheriff's dismissal.

Vaisey stepped back, looking him over. "Oh, are you trying to hint you would rather be somewhere else?" Guy stared back at him, exhaling audibly.

Unfortunately, the Sheriff was not yet done with him. "You know Gisborne, every time you scowl, it reminds me of a disobedient child who has no recourse but to act out. Keep in mind your little acts of dissension are impotent at best, and at worst, will lead you to the end of a noose."

"Right," Guy replied dully. He felt like the noose had been in place for years already. He simply had not gotten around to stepping off the scaffold. Despite his overwhelming desire to leave, he remained standing next to the chair.

"Make sure to double the guards tomorrow. We are going to have a few...guests staying with us, and I want to be certain they remain both untroubled, and untroubling," Vaisey said cryptically.

Guy was tempted to ask what the hell that meant, but he found he lacked the energy to care. He figured it had something to do with what the Sheriff was up to earlier. He would carry out the order, and find out later what it was all about.

"Tomorrow should bring a wealth of new opportunities," Vaisey said brightly. The Sheriff looked at him, searching for some sign of acknowledgment. When none appeared, he added, "Oh, I almost forgot. There will be a party for our guests tomorrow night. They are likely to be a little rowdy, and well-armed. Keep your men in line, and do try to avoid drinking yourself into an even more belligerent state. I do not want to be tripping over bodies during my soiree."

Guy fervently hoped there would be something urgent that needed his attention elsewhere. He considered manufacturing it himself, if he had to.

Vaisey appeared to have grown tired of playing with him. He walked to his desk and began unrolling a parchment. "You are free to go." Guy knew this was a lie, but he was glad of it at this point.

He was almost at the door when he heard the Sheriff's voice slide into its most compelling range. "Guy. One last thing." Guy shut his eyes, as if staying a moment longer was physically painful. Vaisey still appeared to be paying close attention to the parchment, but when he spoke the words were quietly plaintive, "I need your support."

Guy told himself it was a siren's call. It should mean nothing to him. But there was honesty in the Sheriff's tone, and its rarity made Guy stop. The Sheriff was always armored in lies and deception. But there were rare moments when he let him see past his defenses. Usually, Guy found it more disturbing than not, and he was not about to reciprocate. But regardless, when the Sheriff spoke to him like this, he was powerless to do anything but listen.

"Do not be so quick to throw away what you have worked for." The Sheriff rolled the parchment back up, and sat on the edge of his desk. "The way may not look as clear as it once was, but I have not given up on our success yet. Sometimes, a state of upheaval is the quickest route to fortune." Guy looked at him dubiously. The Sheriff laughed, remembering something. "I once said you would be a god among men."

Guy grunted, "Yeah, that was overly grand, don't you think? But then you would have said anything to persuade me to stay at your side."

"You think it a lie, that we could have been as powerful as kings?" the Sheriff asked with genuine interest.

"I think you believed it," Guy answered noncommittally.

"It was not impossible. Difficult, yes, but power does not reside with the weak...or the sentimental." Vaisey looked at him with something akin to paternal understanding. "It is clear to me that your desires did not all die when Marian did. Your need for power is not gone. Think back to what brought you to me originally. Find that focus again. You will recall it, once you forget her."

"I cannot forget her!" Guy countered, before he could stop himself.

It was the Sheriff's turn to look weary. "You will either get over her, or your doom is sealed. I've seen many men broken by love. It is a wonderful weapon, but for some reason, people always want to wound themselves with it, instead of using it properly. At least Marian knew its true value." He held up a hand to silence Guy's objection, "Don't start! I am telling you as plain as I can, as I have always done. I know you think I am unduly harsh about such matters, but when I see a pile of stones falling from above, I move out of the way, whereas you, my boy, need a bit of a shove!"

Guy rolled his eyes, but the Sheriff became serious again, "I should have had Marian sentenced and killed after her attempt on my life. Have you never wondered why I did not?"

Gazing unseeingly across the room, Guy remembering the day when it had been revealed that Marian was a traitor. Not waiting for a response, the Sheriff continued, "I did not, because I knew you would collapse into a heap of hatred for me. Instead, I gave you the opportunity to see her for what she was."

Guy could not decide whether to thank him, or kill him for that favor. Instead, he blinked slowly, like an owl waking from a nap, and tried to find the stoicism to endure any more of the Sheriff's good will.

"Whether or not you are able to accept this, you made the right choice." The Sheriff turned back to the parchments on his desk, leaving Guy to stand awkwardly at the door. "I'm giving you one last chance. I have no use for a guilt-stricken wreck."

Guy lingered a moment longer, then pushed open the double doors, leaving the devil alone in his den.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter VI

Sequestered at the back of the tavern, Guy sat with his arms on the table, chin propped on an upturned palm. He had been there for hours, but had yet to touch the pint of ale in front of him. His eyes glinted in the firelight as he compulsively scanned the faces of the tavern patrons, searching for any sign of Hood or his men. It was foolish of them, but they did occasionally come here. The serving maid kept looking at him with dismay. His presence was not very good for business, since many of the establishment's best patrons were thieves and scoundrels who would not stay long once they saw him. He knew he should rest, to be ready to deal with whatever the Sheriff had planned tomorrow, but he could not bring himself to go back to the keep yet. He felt he was too close to a resolution. After so long in the dark, he had finally identified his problem. Now all he had to do was fix it.

After thinking it over, he decided Vaisey was not wrong in his estimation. Guy still had a need for power. But the Sheriff was sorely lacking in that commodity right now, despite his assertions that everything would go in their favor. It made all Vaisey's negative traits stand out, whereas before, they were shrouded in a haze of potential greatness. What the Sheriff may not have considered, when he was trying to inspire his lieutenant, was what Guy would become if he regained the same level of ambition that he once had, combined with a now unfettered disrespect for his Lord Sheriff. No doubt, after a very short while, Vaisey would wish for the return of his "misery-addled mess".

As he saw it, he had only three options. He could leave Nottingham, and try to avoid Vaisey's reach, but it would mean laying aside his name, and becoming little better than an outlaw. He knew he would not be happy wandering the country as an outcast. He'd had enough of that in his youth.

Another possibility would be to kill the Sheriff. Then he would never have to worry about the man again. The thought had crossed his mind before, but he never let it linger. But now that things were different between them, he let the idea play out further. He could be swift, never letting Vaisey know what was coming, or he could drag it out, allowing the vile beast to feel the same kind of fear he caused countless others. The thought gave him a sickening thrill. But it was only a thought. He knew in reality he would find it harder to carry out. For all his faults, the man had done more for him than anyone else, and it would take a steeling of resolve to put all of that aside and finish him. And it was also a known fact that, in retaliation for his appointed official's untimely demise, the Prince would lay siege to the castle, and scorch the surrounding villages. Of course, that was assuming the Prince cared anymore. But Guy did not have an overwhelming desire to risk the destruction of an entire shire, especially since the only holding he had a claim to—notwithstanding its disputed status—was part of it. So he dismissed the idea, for the moment.

Lastly, he could stay, continuing on as he had been doing, which did not feel like much of a solution. The difference was that he could not undo his revelation. There was no going back to being Vaisey's docile devotee. If the Sheriff thought he was not behaving appropriately now, he was in for an even more unpleasant surprise. If Vaisey really needed him, he would accept Guy's blunt honesty, or he would have to find a new henchman. Perhaps it would lead to his own death sentence, but it would be a relief to be himself, for however short a time.

The sound of a woman's laughter drew his attention away from his contemplation. The tavern maid was talking to two men who had taken up seats at a table near the door. They had only been there a short while, but were already on their third round of drinks. Their speech had a strange lilting tone to it. He guessed they were from the West, but the accent was not Welsh. Perhaps Irish. The taller one was red-haired, and appeared older, while the other was short, with dark hair, and bright eyes that were too close-set. They were wearing sage-colored tunics over mail hauberks. They were not dressed like nobility, but he thought he caught the shine of silver on their garments, and there was a level of quality in the workmanship, which meant they had means of obtaining wealth. Overall, they had the appearance of mercenaries.

Guy did not like the look of the short one. He had an arrogant air that reminded him far too much of Hood. The man was making advances on the serving girl, and by the look of it, she must have found his speech charming, considering how quickly she fell into his lap. The red-haired man appeared more shrewd, and Guy found he was being watched in return. He met the gaze without wavering. The man inclined his head just slightly, and smiled.

Guy frowned. Congeniality was not something he offered to strangers without cause, and most travelers through Nottingham followed the same custom. Then a thought struck him. Perhaps these were the "guests" Vaisey had mentioned. They appeared no more well-armed than the next man, but he could see the potential for the short one to be rowdy.

The older man said something to the younger one, and he paused in his wooing of the maid to look toward Guy. He whispered something to the girl, and when she answered, he gave her a coin. Laughing, she made her way back to the kitchen. The man grinned, and raised his mug toward Guy, saying loudly enough for him to hear, "Good eve, friend. That lovely lass tells me you are Sir Guy, the Sheriff's man. I am Tiernan MacMurrough, and this here is my brother, Finn." The names meant nothing to Guy. Tiernan pointed to the still untouched mug on the table in front of Guy. "What'll ya be having?"

"Solitude and silence, if you've got it," Guy replied. His chair scraped along the rough wooden floor as he stood to leave. "If not, I'll find it myself, elsewhere." The Sheriff had probably warned them to look out for him, and it appeared they were trying to start off on the right foot. But Guy was not the welcoming committee. They could keep their good will to themselves.

Tiernan laughed, and appeared about to protest, but his brother put a hand on his arm. Finn addressed Guy in a moderated tone, "The hour is indeed late, and we have traveled far today. We look forward to making your acquaintance, at a better time."

Striding past their table on his way to the door, Guy snorted derisively at Tiernan, "If we must."

Tiernan was quick to retort, "It looks like where we come from, English courtesy is not given the credit it deserves. I'd say it is_ slightly_ more pleasant than a punch in the face."

There was a hint of laughter in Finn's warning, "Let it be, little brother."

Ignoring the slight, Guy ducked through the low tavern doorway, and stepped into the dark cobbled street of Nottingham town, leaving the brothers to their drinking. After meeting these two, he had even less faith in the Sheriff's plans for their future. He wondered what possible use the Irish could be to the Sheriff. Prince John was not particularly fond of Ireland lately, and it was risky to make some alliance with the Prince's enemies. But he knew he could look forward to Vaisey revealing it all tomorrow, most likely with far too much flourish. The Sheriff delighted in explaining his schemes, and Guy had always been a captive audience, though perhaps not for much longer.

He walked the final steps through the town, until the dark bulk of the castle spread upwards before him. The sentries at the inner gate hailed him. The portcullis opened like the fanged mouth of a demon set to swallow its wayward child, and he entered once again into the devil's domain.

~ Fin ~


End file.
